


please, order my steps in your word

by doespenguinsisgay



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Church Sex, M/M, Porn With Plot, i. i dont know what to say for myself, priest!blake, they uh. yea im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 23:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20496755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doespenguinsisgay/pseuds/doespenguinsisgay
Summary: Mark is used to wanting things he can’t have.(or, the one where mark falls in love with his priest)





	please, order my steps in your word

**Author's Note:**

> .... i truly don’t know what to say for myself i blame perri for this. my one way ticket to hell has been secured.
> 
> this is porn. its just church porn. also everything is 100% consensual i promise mark just hates himself :(
> 
> title from order my steps - the brooklyn tabernacle choir

Mark is used to wanting things he can’t have. His hopes for a future in the sport he loves crushed by a crippling knee injury before he even graduates university, his desire for a career that won’t feel like a punishment erased by the mundane nine to five he spends stuffed into a cubicle, his wishes for a nice picket fence life with a dog and a man who loves him condemned by the Lord’s command. All forbidden longing pushed aside and kept bottled up for fear of having to face the heartbreak for the first time in his life. Instead, he just keeps moving.

Fresh out of college, Mark is relocated to a small town on the outskirts of Winnipeg, a bleak little thing that makes him feel more at home than ever before. The pale, cracking roads and rundown one-storied homes with yellowed yards reflect the same dreary state his heart has been engulfed in for months.

Growing up, his mama had always told him, if you ever are lost with nowhere to go, find yourself a church and work it out from there. So, naturally, moving out of his province for the first time in his life, over a thousand miles removed from everything he’s ever known- his family and his home- the first thing Mark does after settling into his new place for the first couple of weeks is find a local church.

It’s a quiet little place with dust lining the stained glass and chipping varnish along the pews, but it’s calm and peaceful in the way that Mark finds any house of worship will often be. He steps into the main hall and, with a silent hum overtaking the space of the building, dips his fingers briefly into the basin of holy water by the door and shapes the cross like it’s second nature. Maybe because it is.

The church is empty, save for a man in the front pew who without his presence would’ve made the heartbeat of the building turn eerie. At the muffled echo of Mark’s footsteps, he turns as he approaches. The man rises, fully facing Mark to meet him at the end of the aisle. The man has a young, friendly face and wears the pristine white clerical collar around his neck. He smiles kindly at Mark.

“Hello, I’m Blake Wheeler. How may I help you?” He greets, holding a hand out for Mark to shake, which he obliges. The pastor appears young, but the wise twinkle behind his blue eyes and the faint smile lines creasing along his eyes reveals an older age. Not much older than Mark, however the man seems to be in a further stage of life than him.

“Nice to meet you, Father, my name is Mark. I’m new in town, just stopping by to make sure I know where to go.” He explains clunkily, words coming out rushed and unclear, his tongue feeling slightly too big for his mouth. Blake simply smiles, a warm hand coming up to rest on Mark’s shoulder.

“Of course, welcome. We’re happy to have you.” He tells him, voice genuine, and there’s a lightness that overtakes Mark’s chest in the moment. He sits with Father Wheeler for a while and speaks with him about his path, his journey, and his relationship with God. Surprisingly, Mark finds it incredibly easy to be honest with Blake, a feeling he’s never had towards a member of the clergy before now. But Blake makes it so easy to open up under his understanding, benign gaze and patient nods of encouragement to continue.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Mark meets with Father Wheeler when he can, and the pastor appears to read him with ease, able to pick up on the struggle Mark has been bearing through the recent years of his life. He always puts an emphasis on the acceptance of Mark into the Church and the constant presence of the Spirit within the walls of this building, should Mark ever need Him.

Inevitably, Mark’s forbidden desires begin to present themselves in the most blasphemous way, slowly but surely until Mark is drowning in his want that has him clawing at his throat for room to breathe. Of course, it’s the apple that breaks Eve’s back, and it’ll be the pastor that breaks his.

He keeps it away for so long, continues to see Father Wheeler whenever he can and swallows down the sacrilege with each brush of skin over his own. He locks it deep inside his subconscious and burns away the key with the scalding spray of the water he’s beneath. He tries to melt away the lust and the sin and the  _ want _ , but Mark is only human, and he relieves himself to the thought of the pastor’s big gentle hands on his shoulders as he had stood behind Mark in the pew only hours ago. Afterwards, he cries and he prays and with hair still dripping down his neck he begs for forgiveness on his knees. It does nothing to appease the swallowing pit of guilt opening up at the bottom of his churning stomach.

On an icy Sunday afternoon, Mark gives into the guilt that has been hanging over his head for months, knees buckling weakly as he finally arrives at the church after morning Mass. He had gone home to rethink everything, before returning to the house of worship on an imperative mission. It’s time he’s found forgiveness.

Blake greets him at the end of the aisle, just as he always does, with an inviting smile that seems to melt away the moment he takes stock of the grim expression that must be carried over Mark’s features. He frowns, eyebrows pinching in concern and Mark wants to smooth it all out, bring him to ease yet again. He swallows thickly, looking down at his hands.

“I’d like to be forgiven, Father.” Father Wheeler nods wordlessly, leading him towards the confessionals. Sparks light at the end of each of Mark’s nerves as he follows, an anxious concoction of shame bubbling up in his chest. As Mark settles back against the uncomfortable wooden chair near the ornate black grate, Blake clears his throat. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”

“Go on,” Blake says encouragingly, when Mark fails to continue. He takes a deep breath, straying from the traditional path as he prepares himself for a rightful wash of guilt once he discloses these sins to not only a servant of God, but the man who lies at the center of his desires.

“For weeks now, I’ve been wanting- craving a pleasure that I can’t let myself indulge. The harder I try to stray from it, to pray that it escapes me, the stronger it becomes. I don’t want it to consume me, but there’s no way of telling.” Mark begins, keeping his voice steady and his words vague, listening to the rhythm of the Father’s breathing to keep from shutting himself down out of fear.

“Mark, you’re allowed to want things. I know you haven’t been given the things that you truly desire in life, but you shouldn’t punish yourself for experiencing something that all of God’s creations go through without a second thought every day. Why do you feel that it’s so hard to let yourself have this?” Father Wheeler tells him, so accepting and kind. Mark doesn’t deserve such generosity. He wipes his palms on the legs of his jeans, taking in a shaky breath. Silently, he begs the Holy Father for strength and courage, resilience.

“Father, you don’t understand, I-“ Mark’s voice cracks, and the prickling behind his eyes becomes something fierce. He hears the comforting rattle of the grate, and the pastor has put his hand against the screen in support. It makes the trembling in his fingers grow worse. “I want something unholy, I want you to- I  _ need-“ _ He doesn’t finish the thought, but he doesn’t think he needs to. The shame in his voice gives it all away, and Mark is flush with fear, tilting his head back against the wall and pinching his eyes closed.

Blake doesn’t respond, he’s silent for a long time. Only the faint sound of Mark fidgeting in his seat fills the booths, before there’s a creak and a door closing. The door of the confessional opens slowly, and the pastor slips inside, shutting the door behind him. With the click of the latch leaves all of the air in the booth.

Father Wheeler comes to stand in front of Mark, crowded enough that he has to step between his knees, and Mark can’t look at him. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut until a hand comes to hold the side of his face, palm warm and calloused. His breath hitches and it sends another spiral of guilt down his throat.

“Mark, it’s alright.” His voice is as gentle and benign as before, if not a little strained. Hesitantly, Mark lets his eyes flutter open to stare up at the man in front of him. Blake is looking down at him with kind eyes, his lips pressed together in a solemnity that sends a shiver chasing its way down Mark’s back, but it isn’t a look of malice. All at once Blake’s thumb comes to swipe over Mark’s cheek until the pad of it is pressed to the corner of his mouth, and Mark curls his fingers into tight fists and digs his nails into his palms, resting on top of his thighs. “Let yourself want.”

His thumb moves until it’s right against the center of Mark’s bottom lip, and instinctively his head tilts up. Blake pushes at the seam of his lips until Mark lets him in, taking the thumb between his lips. It all feels so wrong, but everything about it seems so safe. Mark takes his finger deeper into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the thick digit. He sucks, and Blake is watching him with a newfound intensity. Too soon he pulls it from between Mark’s lips, dragging the spit-soaked finger down his chin. Mark shivers.

“Father-“ It’s spoken like a plea, a broken prayer falling from Mark’s lips, and Blake tightens his hold on his chin. With his free hand, Father Wheeler reaches for his belt, slowly but surely drawing the strip of leather from its buckle and letting it hang loosely in the belt loops. He pops the button on his slacks, and Mark can’t stop watching. Time is slowing down until it isn’t moving at all, frozen around them.

“What do you need, Mark?” Blake asks calmly, his voice almost serene, as he steadily frees his cock from his briefs. Mark gasps, staring at the pink head in awe as he unconsciously dips forwards. Blake holds him back, looking down expectantly at him.

“I- anything, Father. I need-  _ you.” _ He’s already drawing short of breath, words coming out more in pants than anything else. Something dark shifts behind the beryl of Blake’s eyes. Wordlessly, he adjusts his grip and leans Mark forward until his lips are brushing against the head of his cock. The pastor hisses as Mark wraps his lips around the head, running his tongue over the tip graciously and feeding his thanks through each swipe of it.

Hollowing his cheeks, Mark presses deeper, humming around the thickness to ease it down his throat. He inhales shakily through his nose, and pushes his head down as far as he can take it, tears collecting at the corners of his eyes as his throat begins to constrict around Blake. He pulls back until only a comfortable amount rests on his tongue, before dipping back in again. Steady hands come up to thread through Mark’s hair, as a means of comfort, almost. Mark keeps his fingers curled along the edge of the confessional seat.

“So good, Mark, you’re doing so well.” The Father coaxes, stroking a hand down the back of his neck as Mark takes him in deep, choking around him again. He bobs his head, relaxes his lips until his jaw aches, and keeps an easy rhythm as he melts into the low groans and unevenly paced breaths above him. Heat begins to pool sharply in the pit of his stomach as Mark squeezes his thighs together.

When Blake pulls him off, a choked sob is ripped from Mark’s lips. He watches Mark with a heavy gaze that settles off-kilter atop his shoulders, panting into the dim of the confessional. The cut of his jaw, the pink of his lips, the curve of his nose falls beautifully in the lack of light, and Mark can’t help but stare with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. Before he can register the words chasing away from his tongue, Mark is gasping out, “fuck me.”

“Okay, okay.” Blake rasps through heaving breaths, hands reaching out to smooth over Mark’s shoulders. He tucks himself away, for modesty’s sake, and steps back to help Mark stand with wobbly knees and trembling thighs. He’s so hard and flush with arousal it  _ hurts. _ Blake leads him out of the confessional, composure still untouched, but Mark can see the sweat beading at his hairline and the pink dusting his cheeks, the darkness behind his eyes. He follows without a question to his lips.

The pastor stops in front of the altar, rounding the corner until he’s back behind Mark. He straightens him out with hands on his hips, and Mark is pointedly focused on the way his ass feels pressed up against Father Wheeler’s bulge. He grinds back a little, experimentally, and Blake’s grip tightens, a low hiss escaping his teeth. Without warning, he grasps the back of Mark’s neck and shoves him face down onto the altar, bent at the waist with his hip bones digging into the edge of the table. It stings blissfully as it anchors him to the moment, that and the Father’s hands on him.

“Stay,” Blake commands simply, stepping away from Mark and Mark complies. He stays bent over the altar, the smooth marble cool against his cheek. As he waits for Blake to return, Mark’s eyes follow the crisp lines of the stained glass windows while listening to the sharp echo of the pastor’s footsteps as they fade, ringing out to the high ceilings of the empty building.

There’s a certain feeling evoked in Mark, just then, a cocktail of dread and excitement bubbling up his throat as he stands there, for anyone to just walk in and see. Logically, he knows Blake would’ve taken some precaution before going through with such a thing, such sacrilege. Still, there stands that speculative threat that lingers, a thrill of getting caught.

Mark is so lost in his own head, he doesn’t hear the Father returning until he’s back pressed up against him, fingers running along the waistband of his jeans. He drags his nails lightly over Mark’s lower back, drawing out a shiver. He pushes back against Blake in reaction. The pastor reaches around to pop the button of Mark’s jeans, and his pants are being pushed down over the swell of his ass. Blake groans.

“Look at you, Mark, gorgeous.” His voice rumbles over the altar in waves, low-spoken words sinking straight to his dick. A click from somewhere behind Mark drifts forward and the shock of something cold against the tip of his tailbone has him whining into the marble of the altar. Blake swipes a finger downwards, fingertip nudging against his entrance. He spreads what Mark assumes is lube generously over the skin, pressing in experimentally. The Father hums as his finger sinks farther into Mark, and Mark already feels so full, yet throbbing for more. He presses his hips forwards to relieve some of the ache in his cock, earning only a sliver of the friction he needs.

“I need more,  _ please,  _ Father, I’m begging you-“ Mark whines, trying to grind back against the single finger curling and twisting inside of him. A gasp is stolen from his lips as the pressure low in him disappears, writhing in an uncomfortable emptiness as Blake tuts his tongue, as if he’d be wagging a finger if Mark could turn his head.

“So greedy. Patience, Mark, I’ll give you what you need.” His voice is slowly edging on teasing, but he never disappoints, now pressing two fingers to Mark’s rim, newly cold with fresh lube, and working them inside. He crooks his wrist, curling his fingers to just barely miss Mark’s prostate, drawing a high, breathy noise from him. The only word on Mark’s mind is  _ more, more, more  _ until he’s dizzy with it. The pastor hums curiously, twisting them the same way again, this time pressing into his prostate head on, and Mark yelps, melting into a moan. “Aha, there we go.”

Blake gently pushes his fingers against the spot, indulging Mark’s pleas sparingly. He goes slow, now on three fingers, stretching him out lazily until Mark is a writhing, crying mess. He begs out an incoherency that the Father seems to understand, brain swelling and fuzzy as his toes curl in his shoes. When Blake finally removes his hand, a sob is ripped from Mark’s throat, shoving his face against the marble.

“Father, please,” The words sound small and broken in Mark’s own ears, barely heard of the crinkle of a wrapper and the snap of rubber. Blake runs a hand up Mark’s back and squeezes at the base of his neck, as he lines his cock up with Mark’s hole. Mark whimpers as the tip begins to stretch him. Blake goes painstakingly slow, but when Mark tries to rock back against him, he stills his hips with strong, commanding hands. He sinks in until he bottoms out, and Mark is sobbing. “Just- fucking  _ move.” _ He snaps, and Blake obliges.

The pastor grips his hips hard enough to bruise and fucks him with a steady rhythm. Mark is biting his lips in a raw, stinging pattern to keep from crying out too loudly, gasping in a lightened relief each time Blake thrusts, jostling him forward with enough force to rub off against the edge of the altar. Sparks of pleasure are shooting through every part of his body; up into his chest and behind his eyes, deep in his belly and down to his toes. Tears drip down his nose, lining his cheeks with a glittery finish as he grows close. He scratches at the marble of the altar, a low humming rippling through his throat.

Blake, the whole time, has been responsive to the noises Mark is making or the way his body is crashing back against Blake in desperation to make the pastor’s role so much easier. It’s all low grunts and hands dragging down Mark’s back, all down his spine, from his hairline down to his hips. It’s sending shivers chasing over his skin. It’s low words of praise, telling Mark how good he feels, how well he’s doing, how pretty he looks.

“Wish you could see yourself, you-  _ shit, _ you look divine. You’re beautiful, angelic.” Father Wheeler groans, less eloquently than such of course, but the message is clear and crisp in Mark’s head, making his vision go fuzzy around the edges.

“Father- Father  _ please, _ I’m so close- I-“ Mark can barely manage, voice breaking with each thrust, and before he can say more, Blake nails his prostate head on. Mark shrieks with pleasure.

“Let go, Mark. Let yourself feel it through and through.” The Father’s words are rhythmic, in time with his thrusts, saying it like a chant; a hymn. Mark falls over the edge to the sound of Blake’s voice like velvet, sobs wracking his body as pleasure and warmth pulse through his veins, whiting his vision and muffling his hearing until his only senses are Blake’s hands on him, fucking him through his orgasm and goading him on. The pastor isn’t far behind, and then all that electricity in the air starts to fizzle out until the church is filled with oppressive silence once more; the only sounds are the conjoined panting of the two men and the soft whisper of a prayer against Mark’s skin, Blake’s lips barely moving. The quiet shatters with a gentle but firm, “Mark?”

“Father…” is all Mark can think to say, his mind overrun with guilt and adrenaline and exhaustion. He doesn’t know how to feel, what to do. It feels as though he’s forgotten how to move his own limbs. He’d been waiting, wishing, for so long. He finally had given into the forbidden pleasures he’d been keeping himself from since he was old enough to understand. Now that it’s over, he can’t help but feel like his life is over, but also like it’s just begun.

“Stop thinking so hard, Mark. We can discuss this in the morning. For now, I’d like to clean up and then maybe make you something to eat back at my house. You can use my shower if you’d like.” Of course, the pastor’s voice hasn’t lost any of its kindness, sure and soothing as it was the very first day he’d welcomed Mark to the church. Something warm and pleasant comes over Mark, and he feels an odd sense of security. For once, he doesn’t feel worried about what lies ahead. For once, he lets himself think about the comfort of a warm shower and a cooked meal and the presence of a man who he feels completely and utterly safe with. Maybe, he can let himself enjoy this. Maybe, he can allow himself to  _ feel. _

**Author's Note:**

> after this idk why you would want to see more but um not everything of mine is porn come say hi [here](starryandersen.tumblr.com)


End file.
